One Last Order
by Eraina
Summary: Before he had him complete the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbledore gave Snape one last task.  Assumes Snape’s “lack of guilt” on the question of Dumbledore’s murder, a theory to which I heartily subscribe.  Polyjuice scene up!
1. The Spinner

**One Last Order**

**Summary: **Before he had him complete the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbledore gave Snape one last task. Assumes Snape's "lack of guilt" on the question of Dumbledore's murder, a theory to which I heartily subscribe. Severus reflects, changes, visits, discovers. Review?

Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own the series. I don't own Harry or any of his friends. I don't own any of their relatives. I don't own any money, either, so you can't sue me. And for the record, I don't want to own the series, either. I only do this for the severe love of Severus—whom I expect to die in the next book. Good luck, Severus! If you have to go out, I hope you go out fighting!

Author's Note: Shall I do my "I-can't-believe-no-one's-thought-of-this" speech? No? Fine….oh, and one more thing—I use 'Snape' and 'Severus' interchangeably. It all depends on which one makes the sentence flow.

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**Chapter One: The Spinner**

He was a man more like a tunnel-web spider than he would have cared to admit.

Oh, it wasn't the typical image of a Slytherin graduate, much less a Death Eater, a man who had felt the hot pain of a magical brand on his skin as he unflinchingly accepted the Dark Mark of the man whose name could not be spoken. That image was one more fluid and flexible, and, too, far more poisonous: the snake that struck into every wizard's mind when he thought of the King Serpent and his band of followers who ate death. And the man sitting curled in the old armchair, in his temporary home at the far end of an old and shabby Muggle village, perhaps fit that more well-recognized image, to some extent. The poison in his mouth, for instance—a snake's venomous fangs were a fitting metaphor for the sharp sarcasm this man was capable of unleashing. But though snakes could lie, they did not spin webs. They did not ensnare their prey and suck from them what was necessary. They did not creep slowly through webs of their own making, checking the tenuous strands of their creation, and patiently wait.

The man who was sitting in the armchair, staring disinterestedly at the bare moor through a dirty window that let in only scant moonlight, did all of these things.

Yet he still did not imagine himself as a spider.

Spinner's End. A fitting title for the abode of such a man, but for all his subtleties, the idea of the spider had never occurred to him. Perhaps it was sheer force of habit that drove the image of the snake to his mind. Perhaps it was the memory of that deed, on a similar night at the top of a dark astronomy tower, that had felt so unbearably snakelike—the coil, the strike, the sudden death. Perhaps it was simple inability to connect himself, huddled in an armchair in a house at the end of an empty tunnel-like street, his webs clouding the air all around him, with the image of the spider, brooding in the dark at the base of its own tunnel, cushioned by its web. Whatever it was, spiders were the last thing on the mind of the fundamentally spiderlike man sitting curled up in the armchair, dressed completely in black.

The armchair was black as well.

Severus Snape happened to like black.

Admittedly, there was something vaguely mysterious and powerful about being shrouded in black. He had always supposed he should be grateful that both his hair and eyes were black, for Severus Snape was not a man to change his appearance due to vanity. Had his eyes been brown or his hair blond, he would have cursed his luck but not changed them. As it was, he looked terribly imposing, his pallid skin shining even more palely under the moonlight, thrown into sharp relief against the black background, his dark eyes flashing even more sharply in the ghostly features of his face.

Tonight, Severus Snape _felt _black.

The former potions master and professor was not musing on his webs, nor his residence. He was not thinking about snakes or spiders or schemes. Though his eyes in the moonlight seemed quick and alert, he was far away from that moment, deep within himself, immersed voluntarily in the blackness that filled up his soul. His mind was lost in a memory he hated, yet—one that he kept replaying, over and over, because it was painful, and pain and this duty were the very last things that he had. He breathed slowly, his brow heavy and grim, and drew his feet closer to the chair, gazing restlessly at a long white hair that he was twisting broodingly around his finger.

At the moment, though no one would ever have guessed, that hair was one of the most important things in the world.

_I cannot do it; I cannot do it; I won't._

He hated remembering the voice, because it sounded so weak, so petulant…so naïve. So much like everything of which he'd tried to purge himself, and failed.

_Of course you will, Severus. After all, you agreed to do it, didn't you? Then that's that._

Foolish to think he could be rid of the voice. After all, he knew better than anyone that a guilt-stained conscience dwells on the stain.

_You are not well, Albus. You don't understand what you're saying. Your death would achieve nothing. Nothing. It would arouse the remaining Death Eaters, swell You-Know-Who's ranks. It would remove the greatest protection this school has to offer. It would force me to cut off my connections to the Order of the Phoenix, render me useless as a spy._

_Severus, I am surprised at you. Averse to saying Voldemort's name?_

_God damn it, Albus! That's not the point, and you bloody well know it!_

_On the contrary, Severus. It is very important. You are afraid of him, then. You are afraid of what he has asked Draco to do, and so you are afraid of what I am asking you to do._

Snape settled back in the chair and closed his eyes, wincing in pain at the memory.

_You're damn right I'm afraid!_

Even now, he felt the comforting hand on his shoulder. Despite his best efforts, it was crooked and charred; but somehow, it still felt warm as it rested on his shoulder.

_I need you to be strong for us now, Severus. More than anyone else, I need you now. _

He had laughed then, an ugly sound that came from the depths of his being, and felt ashamed.

_More than your precious student, Potter?_

But for once…for once…he had let it pass.

_You know very well what I mean. Without you, all of our efforts may fail. Why do you think I am insisting that you not break your Unbreakable Vow? We need you, Severus. Harry needs you._

Snape remembered sneering and hated himself for it.

_And because you so desperately need me, you would have me kill you, the one person who trusts me fully, and have me flee the school and the Order in shame, despised as your murderer, unable to send my information to the Order, unable to show my face on pain of death. You would have me kill the greatest wizard of the age, brand me with the mark of Cain…_

_It is not that simple, Severus._

Snape writhed in the old black armchair.

_Firstly, you are far more clever than you give yourself credit for._

_You're not well, Albus. I cannot—I will not—listen to this._

_Of course you will. It is precisely because you are clever that you _will _continue to send messages to the Order of the Phoenix. And with my death, you shall rise in the ranks of Death Eaters to become Voldemort's most trusted servant. You will save Draco, and in doing so, achieve a rank which will allow you to pass even more valuable information to the Order._

_Albus, I can't—_

_Secondly, you are partially correct: I am not well. In addition, Severus, I am old. Old, and far less valuable than I once was. As the year goes on, my strength has waned. I would not survive long, anyway. By killing me, you will make me—indecent as it is—a martyr, a rallying point for 'Dumbledore's Army,' as it were._

Snape listened again to the cold logic. It was sickening. Even now, he protested.

_But, Albus…they still need you. They need you far more than you can imagine. A portrait will not be enough, not nearly enough, to fulfill that need. Please. _He hated himself for it, but he found himself grasping for the one thing most likely to sway the old man. _P… _His voice caught. _Potter needs you. _

He remembered the slow, soft smile.

_Harry is far more ready than he thinks he is._

And he had not missed the slow flash of thought in his brain as they locked eyes…_So are you, Severus._

_But, in some ways, you are correct…_

The brief leap in his heart had been so beautiful, so painful.

_Therefore, that, too, I will leave to your considerable skills and cleverness._

_Albus?_

Confusion.

_I will walk after I am dead, Severus. You will help me._

Dumbledore slowly raised his good arm to his temple. As Snape watched with dawning horror, he plucked seven silvery-white strands of hair from his own head, strode forward, and pressed them into Severus's limp palm.

His eyes had widened.

_Albus, no…No!_

The blue eyes had been so tired, so sad.

_Severus, I need you…And they need me…You said it yourself. Think about it for a moment. Seeing me alive, if only for a brief moment, would shock Voldemort…and in my form, you could give Harry all the information he requires. Harry believes in me…_

How sad the voice was!

…_He would not question you._

Snape found the loophole and struggled to free himself.

_I cannot be you, Albus…I'm nothing like you…_

_You think not? Have you paid so little attention to what I say over these long years? Does your capacity to act cease at Headmasters? Consider it the greatest performance of your career, Severus…playing Albus Dumbledore._

The smile was full of genuine amusement. It made Snape furious.

_My God…I would hate you. I want to hate you. _

The blue eyes had merely sparkled.

_Albus, _please…

He could be so cruel, sometimes.

_I still trust you, Severus._

And that, more than anything, was why he had finally mustered up the courage, hating himself to the very core of his being, to do it, and why he was sitting here now, in this half-rotten black armchair in his hovel at Spinner's End, with dread roiling in the pit of his stomach and shooting through his limbs.

Snape needed someone to trust him.

To keep trusting him.

Even in death.

Sitting numbly in the armchair had begun to make him restless. Muttering a curse, Snape rose in a swift, fluid motion from the chair, his robed figure seeming almost to drift, ghostlike, as he made his way to the window. Moonlight, streaming down from the cloudless sky, filtered through the dirty pane and set the strand of hair still twisted in his fingers to gleaming. Snape tightened his fist around the hair and twisted his head to stare over his shoulder, into the middle of the room.

A year ago, a rickety table had stood there, its silken wood illuminated from above by the same tired, candle-filled lamp that still hung from the ceiling. Same candles, too, throwing out the magically eternal flame that had been cast onto their never-burning wicks. Now, however, their pale orange light was thrown onto a carpeted floor bare except for one rather conspicuous ornament—A cauldron sat in the middle of the room, bubbling sluggishly under the rapidly diminishing influence of a sputtering magical fire that had been lit beneath it. Its contents were thick, dark and muddy, scantly reflecting the half-hearted glow of the candles directly above. It had been sitting there for twenty-one days now, constantly tended, and now, rapidly achieving potency. Just as Snape's stomach was rapidly becoming more nauseous. He had thought killing Dumbledore was bad, but now, even in death, the man's memory continued to press him, to torment him into these abominable acts.

He did not want to do this thing.

He had no choice.

Snape moodily turned back to the window. The silvery hair gleamed. It was no good denying it: The potion was ready; he could tell, and Potter would need the information that he, and he alone, could provide. He cursed again under his breath and wished for a visit to the old man's portrait. A visit that he, as Hogwarts' grand traitor, could no more achieve than Neville Longbottom could master a broomstick. A pity, really.

A sudden scuffling noise set him alert once more, and he hastily concealed the white hair in his palm, feeling it press into his heart line. That would be Wormtail, scuffling around the staircase again. Hopefully not in rat form—Snape's lip twisted with disgust—although one never knew. Judging by the noise, however, he was considerably larger than his Animagus form—human, then. For weeks he had been sniveling, whining, reminding Snape of his great crime: "_You're not so special, you know, just because it was you who finally got the chance to kill him…just because it was you who happened to have the luck…_"

Of any guilt, any sorrow, any shame that he might feel, the presence of this creature—unfit to be a man, even unfit to be a rat—seemed to double it. He was a constant reminder that daily made Severus squirm. Though of course, he never showed it.

Fortunately, Wormtail was too thick to recognize a Polyjuice potion when he saw one. The first day, he had stared suspiciously at the brown goop, and Snape had identified it as a particularly odious …Draught, and threatened to give Wormtail a taste. The old rat had declined, with a look of contemptuous horror on his small, ratty face, but just in case, Snape had read his mind, and he had found no more suspicion. He did have a version of the potion available, though, if Wormtail ever felt the need to tell the Dark Lord of the odd potion Snape was brewing at Spinner's End.

Still, it was time now, and he did not want that vermin scuffling and poking his way around the top of the staircase while he made the necessary preparations. Snape strode to the middle of the floor and stuffed the hair into a pocket.

"Wormtail."

With a squeaky protest, the book-covered door slid slowly open, and Wormtail, hands held nervously before him, stepped out. The fool; he hadn't even attempted the pretense that he hadn't been listening by waiting to open the door for a few brief seconds. Snape felt his lip twitch in an impatient sneer.

"Haven't I told you not to lurk in doorways, Wormtail?"

Wormtail's beady eyes narrowed. "I have every right to be wherever I wish. Your calling me doesn't mean—"

Snape was not in the mood for Wormtail's simpering. "Wormtail, I have an errand for you to run. Go down to the Muggle village, and fetch me a notebook." Of course, Snape had absolutely no immediate need for a notebook; he simply needed a way to force Wormtail out of the house. Perhaps later he could use it to stuff the gap under the doorway, which, he construed from the many rat-shaped footprints, Wormtail had recently been exploiting.

Almost immediately, Wormtail's back straightened. "Down to a Muggle village? No, I won't—and you can't make me—magic one yourself!" he said squeakily.

"That was not a request, Wormtail. And don't bother to hurry."

Wormtail twisted his tiny hands. "Just because the Dark Lord likes you, just because you killed Dumbl—"

He could not listen to that. Not tonight. "Oh, and Wormtail? You may pick up some firewhiskey when you are done, if you care to, and seeing as our store of elf-made wine has almost run down." Snape had taken to soothing himself with the wine but lately it appeared as though its effects were becoming less potent and some stuff was needed that was a bit stronger. Still, he knew he himself could not have polished off all that wine in so short a time, and he suspected that Wormtail had a large hand in that.

Indeed, Wormtail seemed a bit more agreeable with the mention of the whiskey, but his eyes were still narrowed suspiciously. "And if I say no?"

Snape's smirk twisted viciously. "If you say no, you may instead be of use to me by testing this mixture, which has, as it happens, just come to completion."

Wormtail glared at him, but he strode across the room, eyeing the potion nervously, plucked open the door, and was gone. From the window, Snape saw him scuttling over the road towards the Muggle village a few miles away, ratlike, indeed.

Swiftly, Snape crossed to the doorway and charmed it with a complex locking spell, unbreakable by the more garden-variety counterspells for locks. He then did the same to the windows throughout the house. He would not be taking any chances of Wormtail coming home early, even though he had the feeling, not least because he had seen the beginnings of it in Wormtail's mind as he left, that wherever he would be going for firewhiskey was a place frequented by Dark wizards—a place where a slimy rat like himself would not be out of the ordinary and could easily slink around and enjoy himself a bit before he brought the bottles home. Wincing, Snape made a mental note to check whatever Wormtail brought him…just in case.

As it was, from this moment, he should have at least two hours.

Swallowing his nausea, he felt the hair in his pocket, removing it again and rubbing it nervously between his thumb and forefinger. No more stalling. No more self-recrimination. This had to be done.

Yet he still dreaded it. So much.

Removing to the middle of the room, Snape took his wand from another pocket and magically crafted both a silver goblet and a larger beaker out of thin air. He took the cauldron from the flames, Vanishing the magical fire, and plunged the goblet into the thick mixture, drawing it out filled to the brim with the sludgy goop. Then he drew the remaining potion into the larger beaker, added a lid, and stuffed both it and the cauldron into a useful little compartment he'd created beneath the threadbare sofa. He then stood and pocketed his wand, holding the silver goblet in one hand and Dumbledore's hair in the other, breathing a little more shallowly than normal, and sighed.

There should, he reflected, be a mirror.

He swallowed another sick feeling that threatened to rise up out of his throat, wishing that Calming Draughts were compatible with Polyjuice potion, and took out his wand again. With a quick _swish_, the old black armchair he had been sitting in a few minutes ago became an especially tall full-length mirror, with silver trim and clawed feet, large enough to accommodate even his tall frame. Two silver snakes curled around the top of it and he noted them and winced.

_Honestly…what did I expect?_

Carefully, he pocketed his wand once more and stood directly before the mirror, briefly taking in the smooth robes, the pale skin, oily, dark hair, and fathomless black eyes. Snape had taken Polyjuice potion only twice before, both times in preparation for dangerous missions, and both times into men he had not known, or knew little. Always, he had felt fiercely possessive of his own body before making the change—He had not expected this time to be different. Yet he had never feared a transformation so much as this.

He stared at the goblet in his hand. He had no great love for the Polyjuice potion. Both times before, he had not actually been the one to brew the potion, as he had been working for the Order, and even so the transformations had been unpleasant, for he had changed into unpleasant men. The potions had turned awful colors and he had had to nearly gag them down, and the transformations afterwards had been painful. He had shrunk both times, too.

He wondered what color Albus's Polyjuice potion would turn, and what it would taste like. Then he wondered what color and taste his own Polyjuice potion might have. He frowned, and sneered at himself in disgust at what his imagination dragged to his conscious mind. _Black_, it insisted, _black, and tasting like blood. What else? _Angrily, he shook his head and focused. His disobedient mind was obviously stalling and that could not be a good thing, especially since he had already wasted at least ten minutes cleaning and wondering. And he had to get to Surry.

Was he a coward?

He sneered.

_Come on, Severus._

Snape plucked the white hair from his pocket and, without ceremony, dropped it into the sludgy potion.

The mixture hissed and bubbled accordingly, frothing. Within seconds, it had shifted from an awful, dull grey to—Snape's eyebrows rose in surprise—a very pleasant turquoise, almost the color of the sky. Somehow he had the faint feeling that this mixture was not going to be as disgusting to drink as the first two to which he'd been privy. He raised the goblet to his lips, caught his reflection in the mirror, and hesitated. A quiver went down his spine. He did not want to face Albus again…did not want his victim to look at him…did not want to _become _him…

_Coward_, Potter's voice rang smugly in the back of his mind.

Grimacing with self-contempt, he tilted his head back and gulped the potion. It was halfway down his throat when his eyes widened in astonishment.

_A lemon drop?_

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_Afterchapter: _Please review: Praise, comment, acknowledge, flame, whatever floats your boat. Snape needs a good fire in that house at Spinner's End. The more reviews I get, the happier I am—and a happy author is an author who comes back to the story. Review and I'll acknowledge you before the next chapter, as well as praise your holy name. Next chapter: The transformation. I'll try to finish it before I get the next book, at which time all this will be AU.

Oh, and Snape says he doesn't give a damn about Muggle reviews.

But that's Snape, isn't it?

He's going to have to get used to the fact that we love him anyway.


	2. The Atonement

Author's Note: Yes! I managed it before the next book. proud I think this is just the kind of psychological conditioning Snape needs…please review!

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**Chapter Two: The Atonement**

Snape had never been especially partial to lemon drops, but they were better than some other tastes he might have expected. At least it hadn't been a Cockroach Cluster, he reflected, shuddering as the last of the potion slipped past his lips. The lemon drop flavor, however, had been enough for him to feel less compunction in gulping the potion down.

When it was finished, Snape threw the goblet onto the threadbare sofa and waited.

He did not know what to expect. Thus far the potion had surprised him. It had been pleasant, and Snape unconsciously congratulated himself on his technique. However, he did not know what the actual change might bring.

If he had expected it to be different from the other times, if he had thought that the color and the flavor would free him from the pain of the transformation—well, he was soon proven wrong.

The authors of _Moste Potente Potions _had drawn its effects in detail for a reason.

The first wave of pain hit his stomach, bringing the nausea that had so briefly fled back in full force. It felt like something was clawing at his insides. Helplessly, he doubled over and writhed, clutching his stomach with his pale, long-fingered hands—hands that were beginning to burn as though he had pressed them to hot stones. He clenched his teeth hard, sweat beading on his forehead, and moaned.

Severus Snape had borne the Cruciatus Curse with clenched teeth several times before, but never, when he had been writhing on the floor in front of Voldemort, had the pain felt so justified. This pain felt justified, deserved, and because it felt deserved, it felt like some small piece of atonement. And because it was atonement, it made him want more, and more.

He relished the pain as it crawled up his arms and legs, gasped with it as his flesh began to bubble and seethe, welcomed it as his back wrenched and his fingers shortened (but only slightly) and his face was struck with thousands of pricking needles as another's beard grew from his chin. He did not want to think about it; he only wanted to enjoy the pain, because he deserved it—deserved all of it, and more.

But, long before he felt ready, the pain slid away, and, breathing raggedly, dreading that first glimpse of himself, he forced himself upright and stared into the mirror, into the eyes of the man he had killed.

For a moment, he stood, frozen, feeling as though his heart had stopped. He bit back the cry that rose to his lips. Albus was nearly the same height as Severus and it was not so hard for him to imagine that nothing had changed, that he _was _still Snape and he was staring at Albus once more, alive and peaceful, through a magical mirror that rewrote the past and fixed all of his mistakes. Briefly, irrationally, he felt a desire to throw himself at the feet of the mirror and let the tears flow freely, to look up at Albus, who was there again, standing right before him, and apologize again, forever, as he had never been allowed to do in real life—as the Death Eaters, by their very presence, had ripped that chance away. But the rational portion of his mind still had enough pride—shallow and petty though he recognized it—to keep him from it, to recognize that that figure in the mirror was nothing more, and nothing less, than himself.

The clothes were a dead give-away, for one. Albus Dumbledore had never worn black. Indeed, in Snape's clean-cut black robes, he seemed oddly diminished, smaller than he should have been. Cloaked in a shroud—yes, that was it. Snape felt his throat catch, and swallowed, wincing as he saw the reflection do the same. This was no more than awful mockery. He dug a hand into his pocket and quickly pulled out his wand, forcing himself to remember the Headmaster as he had last seen him—in brightly colored robes of fine cloth, decorated with rich patterns. A swish of his wand brought the imagined clothes into being, replacing the sleek black. Severus would never have felt comfortable in these clothes, but he felt comfortable looking at Albus in them—not in the sad black funeral garb that had always been so appropriate for Snape.

On a whim, he added the hat.

It settled easily onto the contours of Dumbledore's head, and Snape felt another painful prick in his chest as he looked at himself in the mirror again, now the awful, perfect image of the only man who had ever forgiven him, the only man who had ever truly cared about him—the man he had killed. It felt like a long, cruel needle, penetrating him with agonizing, deliberate slowness. He looked away, on the pretense of studying his new body, though in the back of his mind and his heart he knew that it was simply an excuse to avoid what he could not physically bear any longer.

His first glances at his new self were cursory, almost rote. He had gone through the same brief evaluation of self before he had set out on his two previous missions: checking the feel of the body, his new weight, his new center of gravity, how he should move and speak and act. He glanced down at Dumbledore's feet, sweeping his gaze quickly up the body with as much indifference as he could muster, and it was only when he inspected the hands and forearms that he realized his left hand was black and crooked as it had been the last year Snape had known Albus Dumbledore. He very clearly remembered doctoring that hand. He had done all he could, but at the end it was still dark, almost charred, and dead-looking, and Albus had put his good arm around Severus's shoulder and told him, to try to temper the feeling of failure, that he appreciated what Severus had done.

Snape tried to flex the hand and a burning pain shot through him, so that he winced and clutched the dead hand in his right. Albus must have masked that all year, when he saw Severus in the corridors or the staff room. He would have done it, to make him _feel better. _So, in the end, Snape was not the only good actor.

He desperately wanted to tear his gaze from the dead thing that twisted at the end of his arm, but he forced himself to gaze once more at his failure. A wry smile twisted his mouth, horribly. All of this was failure. He was clothed in his failure.

_And do you appreciate it, Albus? Do you appreciate what I've done?_

He tried to clench the hand again, and let the pain shoot through him, clenching his teeth. The pain was good. The pain was curative. The burning fire would cleanse.

At least, he must keep telling himself so.

Stiffly, he reached up through Dumbledore's wiry beard and felt the rough texture of his face. A pang of sympathy flicked through him quickly and was gone, dismissed as foreign. For the first time since the tower, Snape was reminded of how horribly old Dumbledore was—and how tired. Even now, simply standing here in his body, Snape felt a tiredness that had nothing to do with his own fatigue. He had glimpsed it briefly on the tower, when Dumbledore pleaded with him for the first time (he banished that thought to the back of his mind; it was the most horrible thing about that night, the pleading), but he had not allowed himself to remember it since: It amplified and increased the guilt. When he had done it he had tried to convince himself that he was facing a worthy adversary, that this was, somehow, not murder. Dumbledore was a great wizard, he reasoned; he was perfectly capable of defending himself, wandless or not. He had known that to be true.

Yet somehow, however briefly, he had received the impression that he had not been killing a great wizard, but simply a frail, helpless old man, a father he had never had. Dumbledore had not resisted, he had pleaded to die. He shut out the memory because it sent an awful pain and self-loathing to his heart every time he thought of it, but now, standing here clothed in his victim's body, it returned forcibly, seeping out from the aching bones. The guilt rose up again. He had not killed a great wizard, it seemed to insist, he had killed an old man, in cold blood, and it was murder.

Snape felt sick. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to steady himself, and sneered inwardly at his own weakness. He could not afford this time; hadn't it been he who had told Potter not to wallow in self-pity? The minutes of his task were being rapidly eaten away. He would not waste Dumbledore any longer. That, at least, he could still do.

He looked up once more, into the light blue eyes that still twinkled in the mirror. Almost as if Dumbledore himself were sharing at this very moment in the conspiracy. He would probably have enjoyed it; that much was certain. He had certainly enjoyed, much to Snape's displeasure, the contents of the Christmas cracker he'd all but forced Snape to pull three years before…Back in those happier times, before the Dark Lord's return, he had certainly never missed an opportunity to try to make Severus feel more…light-hearted, and…_involved…_

Dumbledore's eyes in the mirror gleamed more brightly—_Strange_—and Snape blinked. He almost had the feeling someone was scrutinizing him closely….He shoved the notion away, and realized that he had almost forgotten Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles. Glad for the chance at distraction, he summoned them into being with a wave of his wand. They felt light, almost intangible, on his nose, and he peered over them for a final time, stowing his wand in the pocket of his robes—The wand was clearly his own dark ebony implement, and it would not do to show Potter.

He would be visiting Potter tonight, the boy who wanted him dead, the last person on Earth he would ever have wanted to visit, bar perhaps the Dark Lord or Bellatrix Lestrange. The time the boy could spend in his aunt and uncle's house had very nearly expired, and the Dark Lord was keenly aware of it. Potter had to be told, had to be warned—and most importantly, he had to be brought to his senses before more Death Eaters than Snape would be coming to his door.

Snape moved slowly towards the window and the moonswept moor. One last time, he ran over the location in his head, a location he had never, ever thought he would visit: A dark street, lit with twelve soft lamps that glowed like moons, that he had seen only once before, in a Pensieve in Dumbledore's office. Taking a slow, deep breath, he collected himself, trying to calm his nerves, and prepared to Apparate, mentally reviewing the postal address of the location simultaneously as he recalled the picture of the darkened street.

_Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surry._

He felt magic collecting around his tired muscles, creating a slight tingle in his flesh. He closed his eyes a little more tightly, convincing himself that he was not at Spinner's End, settling himself mentally into the scene he was imagining in as much detail as he could muster.

_Privet Drive—Little Whinging—Surry!_

And then, with an alarming abruptness, followed by a minutely belated _crack!_, Snape was, simply, no longer there.

* * *

_Afterchapter_: Alas, I'm going to get my book now, so no more chapters until I'm finished reading…by which time this will be AU, unless I can bend the story phenomenally.

Go Severus! I'm rooting for you!


End file.
